


Shit Let's Be Droid Hunters

by adiostoreadoormat (choicescarfsylveon)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Android Karkat, Humanoid Robots, Janelle Monae - Freeform, M/M, Metropolis, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-11 02:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18420729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choicescarfsylveon/pseuds/adiostoreadoormat
Summary: You are one of the youngest bounty hunters in the city at twenty six, and also the disgraced royal son of the Metropolitan ruling. It wasn’t becoming for someone of your status to do rogue police work, but you applied as soon as you had enough of your own units. Most of your fellow hunters avoid you, stare resentfully and whisper. They don’t get why you’d leave the ease of powerful ranks for something like this, for work they use to try to getinto the upper classes. That’s fine. No one will ever really know.Unless of course they find out that you fall in love with your targets. One target.





	1. Your freedom's in a bind

**Author's Note:**

> The premise of this universe is based on Janelle Monae's [Metropolis](https://www.allmusic.com/album/metropolis-suite-i-the-chase-mw0000792387) and [The ArchAndroid](https://www.allmusic.com/album/the-archandroid-mw0001977907). I've loved her early work insanely for over a decade, so I wanted to do a take on her story in DaveKat fashion.
> 
> Two chapters following are mostly already written, I'm just filling in gaps at this point. So excited to finally post this.
> 
> And [for your listening pleasure](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=20oIfL2XEQ4)

 

_Good evening, cyboys and cybergirls! I am happy to announce that we have a star-crossed winner in today’s heartbreak sweepstakes: Android number 57821, otherwise known as Karkat Vantas, has fallen desperately in love with a human! And you know the rules! He is now scheduled for immediate disassembly._

_Bounty hunters, you can find him in the Neon Valley Street District at the Leopard Plaza Apartment Complex. The Droid Control Marshals are full of fun rules today. No phasers, only chainsaws and electrodaggers! Remember, only card carrying hunters can join our chase today. And as usual, there will be no reward until his cyber-soul is turned in to the Star Commission._

_Happy hunting!_

 

 

** Dave: be the human **

 

You sit in the crowded cafeteria of the Metropolis Bounty Headquarters, today’s call running through your head over and over.

 

You are one of the youngest bounty hunters in the city at twenty six, and also the disgraced royal son of the Metropolitan ruling. It wasn’t becoming for someone of your status to do rogue police work, but you applied as soon as you had enough of your own units to pay for the training. Most of your fellow hunters avoid you, stare resentfully and whisper. They don’t get why you’d leave the ease of powerful ranks for something like this, for physical labor that breaks your back, for work they use to try to get _in_ to the upper classes. That’s fine. No one will ever really know.

 

Unless of course they find out that you fall in love with your targets. One target.

 

The supposed role of the hunter is to pursue criminals. You don’t really have a problem turning some of the more murderous Androids in. Some of them. But what counts as being in a criminal in this society – falling in love being one, as if that’s even remotely quantifiable by the book of the law – is why you’ve rebelled from your societal position. Though the Androids are superficially artificial, most of them are intelligent, emotional, and compelling. As the Star Commission says, they have souls.

 

You’ve been a somewhat covert patron of the Retrolove clubs in the Neon Valley Street District since you ran off at the age of twenty. A certain droid with fiery drive and enrapturing soul caught your attention at the 6 and kept you coming back like an addict. You’d been watching him for months before he was ever tuned into you, but even then, you knew it was love. Something told you you knew him from somewhere, and the more time you spent with him, the more that felt true, though you still didn’t know how it was possible. Reincarnation on your part? Who knows. Some would say that robots can’t love humans, and vice versa, but how can the government punish them for something that they can’t do?

 

It’s been half a year since you’ve seen him last, but he sent you a message two days ago, through one of his clients in the Commission. His connection must’ve snitched.

 

Now, the government not only knows his name, but wants him dead.

 

Well, you know one thing’s for sure like fuck. You’re gonna be the first one to find him.

 

You stand, tossing the rest of your dinner and activating your phasers - fuck a Droid Marshal - giving the room one last look over. Most of the other hunters aren’t in a rush for this one; there are a Headquarter backlog of hits to be had, and though chasing down an easy target will get enough of these vindictive fucks up and raring pretty shortly, the cyber-soul of a 50000 isn’t worth many units. This is a routine order.

 

But not for you.

 

 

 

_Magazine article from Indie Uprising, Issue 89:_

 

_JAN 76, 2718_

 

**Not All Heroes Wear Capes: The History of Retrolove & The Dirty Scavengers Movement**

 

_Most robots built during Metropolis’ Retro era (2560-2686) were designed to be all around secretaries, intended for work fulfillment purposes. Millions of factory made, mostly female-evident humanoids were sold by the government to local business owners, to perform filing, cooking, cleaning, and problem solving in the work and home life. These Retro bots were numbered 50000 to 60000 and were not initially programmed to be intelligent, making them affordable for your average 2600s man. This man had no real technical idea how the Androids functioned, but bought them in the thousands and resold them, using the profits to pay off his debts._

 

_The Retro era was defined by its anti-government sentiment. The human leaders of Metropolis were - and still are - corrupt, rich oligarchs with their secrets locked up in firewalls, militia. When the location of their data centers – which held proof of universal fraud and human slavery – became public knowledge in 2599, groups of terrorist-hackers sprung up, recruiting other disenfranchised humans by the millions. These anarchist groups offered humans who were indebted or living lives of crime an avenue to disrupt the government’s hold on their independence._

 

_When they weren’t stealing government secrets, Retro hackers were social people. In their spare time, they bought Retro bots off of struggling businessmen en masse, reprogramming and redesigning them. They found it easy to rewrite the bots and give them boosted intelligence, enhanced memory, and incredible emotional capacity, using what is now considered legendary independent software. The government, it was discovered, did not take adequate time to safeguard their robots._

 

_Many hackers used the bots as passive companions, alongside or in place of humans who were susceptible to diseases. Some pairs of Makers and Androids, history says, were soulmates. An influential group of serious hackers used the bots to help supply their anti-Metropolitan crime rings, generating billions of cybercurrency and raking in profit surges for the black market. Many of the Retrobots rose to be leaders and shakers in the movement._

 

_When the government learned that hackers were misusing their products, they doubled down on their tendency for overreaction. In 2618, they demanded all debts, by all people, be paid in full immediately, which was ridiculous. The Revolution soon called for ultimate freedom, for war, and started moving in troops. But any violent attempts to overthrow the government were thwarted. All the revolutionary groups were stomped out and eliminated by the early 2690s, robots and humans alike. These gradual killings resulted in 110 million human casualties, including 30 million missing persons reports. This was the highest record of slaughter since the end of the Nuclear War of 2300, during which Metropolis wiped out 198 million people. So it goes. The thousands of leftover Retro Androids were carelessly disassembled and discarded en masse in the radioactive wastelands of the outer Valleys._

 

_Our government was forgiven by peace keeping agencies universe-wide, once again, for the extermination of their people. The 2700s have been years of rigid existence and low creativity since: Government-approved tech, or off with your heads!_

 

_At the end of the Retro Era, the Metropolitan government enacted laws to prevent another uprising of the poor and robotic, including the famous Sexual Contamination Act of 2686: All man-on-robot love is punishable in a court of law by a minimum ten year prison sentence. For humans. The robots are just "destroyed." But all this law really did was push the man-on-bot movement underground, into the throes of the still-moving black market, where the Revolution dances on in clubs today._

 

_This is what the government is most afraid of: You can’t just wipe the memory of a Retrobot. The 2500 hackers of legend, who designed the immortal Skaia software with care, crafted a level of mysterious encryption in the core parts of their Androids, that no one alive, besides the bots themselves, will ever truly understand. Even club owners these days are obsessed with trying to keep a Retro’s slate clean. What they don’t understand is that these droids were intrinsically designed to learn, to resist, to take down The Man. Wherever you put them, they will adapt to their environment so that they can upend and correct the environment. They will do this without you having to tell them. This is the spirit of sex, of love, of freedom._

 

_While club owners are the most populous, and make the most units, on the street, the Scavengers are the real heroes of our movement. Sure, they spend literally all of their time sifting through garbage, often at the risk of exposure to death by radioactive toxic waste. But they’re the dealers, and without them, there would be no product. Against the law, they use their handiness and old-school programming flair to discover long abandoned Retro boys and girls in the darkest corners of our world. Fix them up, and sell them to your low and high end clubs._

 

_They’re the only ones who grasp the Skaia programming as well as anyone can, make the Retros move again in those all special ways you like. Make them hypersexual, hyperresponsive to human minds. The 80000s and above, Metropolis manufactered and approved, will never. They don’t have the soul._

 

_The problem with Retrolove club owners is that they’re often failed, disgraced Metropolitan businessmen who don’t know shit about programming. Most of these owners are too greedy to hire a team of actual repairmen, or give the Scavengers a place in the business, so. When they buy the Retrolovebots, and the bots eventually “crash” or “change course,” they tinker with their proportionately premoderated settings themselves, to try and make them more profitable. Sometimes they damage them, sometimes beyond repair. After which they “hit the shredder,” or get wasted into raw materials. Those materials are used for building construction, human implants, anything, really. This is why club owners cannot be trusted._

 

_That’s why you all keep coming back to us Scavengers: you know the government has your nads crushed between its fists, and you want release. You want the danger of knowing that the Androids, as they are, know us better than we know ourselves. That creation has surpassed creator._

 

_This is what makes the Retrolove movement so Revolutionary: the government has never truly cared what we do in our black market clubs or where we stick it, because even the government, after all, has to do it too. The taboo orgasm is the one safe ground, the one thing we can all agree on, and sometimes, those fated orgasms lead to love. That’s why they let our practices slide, apart from a few arrests, and even consume them._

 

 _The Dirty Scavengers are your creation. You want to demand our services? Stop treating us like shit._ _Pay us. We own you._

 

 

 

**Karkat: RUN**

 

You are currently being chased by two tracking drones overhead, dodging and darting between dark alleys in the Leopard Plaza Complex. This means bounty hunters will be following soon, and you’re fucked. Fucking Eridan.

 

The gray mechanical orbs shoot red streams of voltage at your chassis from the air. Their phasers are set to low, meant to stun you into inaction and burn minute holes in your exterior, but some of your wires are already fraying through the casing of platinum and elastic-silicone that comprises your skin. You’re a 57000 series Android and thus not built with integrated weapons.

 

Close combat with black tungsten sickles is your game, but you can’t catapult yourself high enough to strike them directly here, not with the Leopard Plaza’s smooth vertical walls rising all around you.

 

That’s the least of your concerns, once they’ve brought the hunters to you.

 

The upper levels of the Complex beside your Apartment leave you two exit strategies: up or down. You have to get out of the building range, put distance between you and the hunters with your address, but it’s only midnight; the blinding streetlights of the Metro nightlife commotion are downstairs, people are going to be paying attention. The only way you hide your trackers is if you remain in the shadows of the upper levels, run alleys until this area of the Leopard is level enough that you can roof jump to the next building. You’ve lived on this block for six years, the maze of it something you know better than the drones, but they have the advantage of flight.

 

You have a quarter mile of building left to cross until the nearest ledge to your knowledge. You rush out from the end of one alley and sprint towards the mouth of another, moving steadily North, but they’re fast, following and waiting for every moment that you lose cover. One pelts you in the arm and you drop a sickle in open space, hissing as electricity crackles and stalls your limb. With the arm that moves, you pick up the sickle and hurl it at the drone on your left. It pierces the body, sparks jolting, and the drone starts faltering towards the ground.

 

 _Fucking finally._ You aggress the bastard when it’s low enough that you can use your other blade to shank it again, carving the metal outside open and stabbing the circuitry inside 'til it’s good and fucking wasted. The other drone shoots your back as you stoop over its partner's corpse. You turn to throw your sickle at the live one and miss, the blade clattering to the ground way too far away. The bot above you shoots and shoots, faster, harder, stunning dents. The actuators in your back are rapidly growing paralyzed from the shocks. You’re now too stiff and fried to raise your arms and throw your blades, and this is what it wants. Slow you, lock you up, weaken you for the hunters.

 

You’re exhausted from running. From your Apartment when the drones announced the hit. From your emotions. From your life.

 

 _What’s the point?_ You knew you were risking it all to send him that message. **I'M SORRY. I DIDN'T MEAN IT. I NEED YOU. COME BACK.** Dave was only doing what you told him to, letting you go. He hadn't been back to your Retroclub in months, hadn't almost made love to you in the dark desperate and imminent, because you pushed him out. Told him you weren't worth the class disparity, your ceiling, your crime. You don't think he believed it, but does it matter? You tell someone to fuck off enough and they start to listen, even those who love you, who you love. Two days wasn't long enough for you to save this.

 

Bounty hunters are given the use of chainsaws on the regular. Whoever finds you first won't bother bringing you to the Star Commission in one piece. The reward is for your soul itself, they'll just leave the rest of you here, and you'll be lucky if it's only one of them. Sometimes two or three compete against each other and the target for the units.

 

There are a million fucking things you'd rather watch than that pissing contest. You'd rather watch humans literally piss. This is stupid.

 

You consider going into sleep mode, expiring peacefully. The tracking drone comes nearer once it's processed that you're hunched over, your top half too stunned to lift. It's stopped shooting, simply hovering afloat, its one red eye locating you precise. 

 

You stare into it. Until the bot is exploded by a pulse of white phase.

 

Dave is on one of the high rooftops above, hunter uniform sleek and crimson, the three moons glowing behind his silhouette.

 

Dave switches his loaded phaser for a hookshot, sends a long chain and grapple into one of the walls, and scales down it. Both weapons back on his belt. Comes over to where you're capsized on the floor with the disemboweled drone. Stares at it, stares at you, his red eyes vibrant.

 

"Always hated those fucking things," he says, smiling. "Come on. Soon as the feds realize we butchered the sinister stalkers and I'm going rogue, we got more than bounty hunters to worry about."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The call at the beginning comes directly from [March Of The Wolfmasters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3XvpQbOtzIU). Next chapter soon!


	2. Make it rain, ain't a thing in the sky to fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your visual, the city looks like Fritz Lang's [Metropolis (1927)](https://duckduckgo.com/?q=metropolis+1927+architecture&iax=images&ia=images)

 

[Bring](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z1xaya28by4) wings to the weak and bring grace to the strong  
May all evil stumble as you fly through the world

 

 

**Dave: consider the mess you've made**

 

Karkat's system is worse for wear, but it powers through. Detects malfunctioned motors and actuators, retrains itself to avoid damaged connections, and moves ahead with what's available. You travel the tops of darkened, cloud scraping buildings, grateful Metropolitan architecture is so complex. Roofs can be traveled like a surface terrain of their own, so long as you can jump them, recognize their changes from District to District. Your hookshot assists; Karkat holds onto you to steady him through the leaps. Neon Valley is contiguous to the Iron District, which you have to cross to reach the Gold District. You can hide in a place you've kept hidden there under an abandoned twelve story hovercraft dealership.

 

Nothing is following you and Karkat now, but it won't be long before Droid Control's drones catch up with you, scanning the city for your DNA. You just committed treason and stole government property - technically, a hit on Karkat makes him property - and you were already guilty of years of Contamination. _One_ count of falling for him was ten years, and there's plenty of proof you've gone back to him again and again. You've got the death penalty on you, royalty or no. You don't know if they knew you were 57821's human when they sent the call, they could've been planning on rounding you up right after it played, but you're the most obvious motherfucker in existence now either way. Heart's on your sleeve bloody and mutinous, take a picture, fuckers. No turning back. Good thing is Retro Androids don't have trackers imbedded inside them. The Scavengers would never.

  

Your actual living location is hidden thanks only to Roxy, your oldest sister. Your siblings are mostly supportive of you being on the run, even though you can no longer contact them. Roxy can never really defect - she's next in line - but you and her were always the secret rebel spirits; she's got hacker connections on the dark side. When you told her you were running off, she gave you cloakers to cover the building you scoped out in the Gold District, location and DNA dampeners not even the top Metropolitan drones can murk. You're off the grid, at least in one way. You own the address in the Diamond District that the government keeps on file for your employment, go back on occasion to make it look like you live there. Now they know you never really did.

 

Your place is a mess, complex broken tech and tearing cords, dirty floors and scrap piles of hardware, digital books cluttered on shelves. Had you known you Karkat would be here - ever - you might've tried clearing your damage. But he knows you. No need to front.

 

Karkat looks rough and exhausted, slowly stepping over bulk, getting his bearings around the room. He takes in the evidence of you, inspecting your tech, interpreting the titles of your literature. 

 

He looks over at you after a while, calculating.

 

“Don’t think for a second that this means I owe you.”

 

You wouldn't dream of it.

 

When he told you to leave him for good, six months ago, he said that he thought you had always taken pity on him. If anything, you're the pitiful one between you. He's equal to you at worst and high above you at best. You have loved him because of who he is, not because of his work. You still haven't even hit his robot pussy. Not the technical name. Most Retros only have a silicone opening. Sometimes they wear detachable straps, but the majority of Retropatrons aren’t interested in that. Probably, because most are heterosexual men, which is the norm. You aren’t. Labels like that don’t make sense anymore.

 

You have never taken Karkat, not even when it killed you both not to some nights, because you wanted him to be free first.

 

“Nah, you don’t owe me shit. If anything, I owe you.” 

 

Karkat takes a moment to process that. The eyebrow portions of his face pinch slightly, the lenses of his blinking eyes expand. You have missed watching him analyze you.

 

“Eridan sold me out," he says. “It was obvious.”

 

Yeah. You were trying not to think about that.

 

You knew it was him the second the order fell, the fishy codpacking fuck. He was the one who delivered the message to you. One of Karkat's regular clients in the Star Commission, who commits mass murder for kicks, sucks up to the highest government agents, and praises the belief that Androids are worthless, but basically lives in the Retroclubs at night. He’s so obviously wanted Karkat in ways he can never have, too insecure to ever admit it, he'd rather Karkat be dead than not in love with him, you could just kill the everliving-

 

“Don’t,” Karkat says, interrupting your next thought with precision, “try to fuck with him or take him down in my honor or whatever self-involved heroic thought you’re about to have. I’m a fugitive, more so than I already was, so any association you have with me puts a target right on your back. Sure, you’d probably skirt the death sentence, because you’re still royalty even if it is your prerogative to be poor. Just. Don’t push your luck. I couldn’t take it.”

 

You are struck by that.

 

“Fuck," Karkat breathes, "I need a fucking charge.”

 

You immediately search for an old enough Crockercorp adapter in your chaos. Karkat sits along one of your walls, closing his eyes. When you find what he needs, you crouch beside him and connect him via the portal on his chest. The euphoric expression he makes stirs your heart.

 

When the loading bar across his chest alights, you swallow. He was only on 3%. Had he exerted a little more on your trek through the Iron District, he would've dropped. You couldn't have carried him, not at the speed to outrun your pursuers.

 

You should've gone to him as soon as you got the message. Your hesitation was only an act of self preservation, as long as you could stand it. Who were you kidding? You were never going to last long. The thought of running to him and springing him out of that club was so vivid and brash that you thought you needed time for it to dilute. Look where dilution and hesitation got you. 

 

"Karkat, I'm so fucking sorry."

 

He keeps his eyes closed, shaking his head.

 

"This had to happen."

 

You stay next to him, silence soothing the wound of his truth. He's charging quickly, bouncing back fast. His exterior needs work, but you should start making your endgame plan before you do that. The indie texts you've been reading from the Scavengers have given you an idea of one. You were always ready to get the hell out of Metropolis, the last two years more than ever, it's why you live in squalor, your bounty hunting just a layover. Some say the Scavengers are full of shit, that there are no tunnels underground, but how do they keep getting in and out? You trust them.

 

There was always just one question holding you back.

 

You notice that Karkat's loading bar has stalled at 30%. You reconfigure the connection, twice, but it's not the cord.

 

“You can’t charge past thirty,” you realize.

 

Karkat opens his eyes. "It's a setting. I got nerfed, all of us did, back at the club. Couldn't let us get to thirty one, that might cause a fucking strike! Fifteen years and counting. If someone with a Repair Control Panel for my series would ever undo it, I’d finally remember what it feels like not to fucking lag all the time, but.”

 

You go to your work bench and pull yours out, compatible with his series and more.

 

His posture tenses when he sees it.

 

“I don’t trust you.”

 

That hurts, but you understand. You’ve only known him two years and he’s been in his current conscious for twenty seven. Being able to use a Panel on an Android gives you the ability to change a lot about them, possibly beyond repair. The human equivalent would be like giving a child the reigns to rearrange your spinal nerves and  _hoping_  when they're done you don't try moving a foot and end up swinging an arm. Karkat has been rearranged internally by his tech-illiterate owners more than you think you can stomach to know. But you know a lot about Androids.

 

You would never change anything that makes him essentially him.

 

“Hey,” you say, leaning in, tipping his cool chin up with two fingers. “It’s just me. Remember?”

 

You can see him flashing memories back through his lenses; small, blue-overwashed images flickering so fast that you can’t tell what they are exactly. You think you have an idea, though.

 

“Okay.” Karkat stops the images. “ _Nothing_ but my power settings, clear?”

 

“Crystal.”

 

You edit them on your screen, removing the cap, and he immediately relaxes. 31%. Lift off.

 

“I’m gonna go on sleep mode,” he says, “it’ll speed up the process.”

 

“Okay.”

 

He enters his dream mode, letting go. His head droops slightly, his arms go loose against his torso. You watch him, the signs he's still there the quiet whir of his processors, the buzz of his portal around the charger. 

 

Now that he's not awake and actively tuned into you, the despair you'd been feeling beneath the adrenaline takes hold. This should've never been his life, he is worth so much more than the cards he was given. You want to protect him more than you've ever wanted anything, rage against the society that's tried to break his soul. But he was right when he said you should let the enemy get away. Sometimes the best revenge isn't retribution. Sometimes it's letting go, taking everything you love and running from the fight.

 

When he wakes up, you will consult your sources,  _Indie Uprising_ and others, for maps they've drawn of the underground tunnels. The Outer Valleys are dangerous and lethal in their own right, but at least outside the city's walls, you'll both be free.

 

 

[Take me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IN-uTm0DrM) to the river, my soul is looking for a word from god  
Good god, like a rose in the cold will I rise

 

 

**Karkat: REMEMBER**

 

You worked at the Retrohaus 6 in the Leopard block for nine years, for money and not too much else. At the beginning, handfuls of your carnal experiences there were fascinating, enlightening. Many of them were exhausting, but playing the humans was better than being a drug carrier. Truth was when you were anything less than a 60000 series, the only way you could really make a living was through criminal means. You weren’t seen as complicated enough to be a servant, a waiter, a taxipod pilot or anything else. In the eyes of greater society, you were lucky the plebeians let you exist, your outer vessel was archaic, damaged goods. Not damaged enough to not make you a perfect sex worker, though.

 

The first night Dave looked at you - to your knowledge, at the time - you still lived in the dorms below the club because you couldn’t yet afford an Apartment in the Complex above. You were charging against the wall in the digital locker room, a Matron 81000 bot cleaning the floors behind you. The club owners only allowed you to charge to 30% because they didn’t want you too self aware. Though you hated being controlled and patronized like that, there was something to it, you thought. If you let yourself be cognizant enough, your work might start getting to your head. Make you feel like you were stuck.

 

Dave was not the only person in the room whose eyes were wandering over you, as you walked into the lobby to seek out the company of a regular. But there was something innate that told you,  _look over there. H_ _im._ He was seated in one of the black armchairs, clothed in a simple red ensemble, blond hair sleek. His eyes were stunning. You'd seen him here before, you recalled - he was the young one, the one who came for years and paid handsome donations to the house, but had never approached a droid. They tried to lure him, of course. He only ever watched, politely declining. 

 

There was something innate that told you he was waiting for one droid in particular. Given how he was looking at you right now, maybe it was you. 

 

You wanted his money, that was all, that was all, you repeated to yourself as you approached him.

 

“See anything you like?”

 

The line was cringe, you knew it, but they tended to like the typical porn shit. He swept his eyes up and down you.

 

He smiled, shy. “I see everything I like.”

 

You sat in his lap facing him, thighs splayed over his, and when he put his hands on you, you knew you were the one he'd been waiting for. Your silicone is suave enough to mimic human skin, though it would always feel fibrous and not truly alive, but the man under you had no qualms with your skin. He touched you broadly, benevolently, like worship, like he was afraid he could break you. You were already starting to feel like you knew him.

 

“What’s your name?” you asked him, to quell your unwarranted familiarity.

 

And he hesitated. “Anthony.”

 

Lie. You were supposed to ask, but the humans almost always lied. Not all Retrobots were above selling people’s names to government double agents, black market liaisons. If any of you got caught peddling your parts, you could possibly skirt your disassembly by snitching enough. Sometimes though, they just took your information and gutted you anyway.

 

You ground and swayed against his lap, regardless of the lie. Your sensitivity settings were higher than usual, though you weren’t sure why tonight of all fucking nights they upped them. It was just a regular Friday. It made things more difficult for you, all things being true. You could feel his thick arousal against your waist, and he was hot, temperature and looks alike. This was bad.

 

You ghosted your mouth along the shell of his ear. “What do you want, Anthony?”

 

He shifted back, hands still on your hips, to look you in the eye.

 

“Can I buy you for two hours?”

 

Shit. You weren’t sure you could fuck this guy, not for that long. He was too emotional, you could already tell that. Even on 30%, god help you, so were you.

 

But that was 3000 units, and you could really use it. 2100, after club fees.

 

“Anything you want.”

 

You led him to the back passageways, holding one of his hands as his other configured digital payment to the club on his Pocketgear. The rooms were all dark, backlit with deep red; this one bore a satin hoverbed in the corner and a single steel chair at dead center, velvet ropes loosely wrapped around the backings. He scanned the surroundings as you locked the door, like he was a little uncomfortable with the obvious implications. When you circled around and stood across him, leveled your stare, he started losing his discomfort comically fast.

 

There were some rules for clients in private buyings; no disassembling, no modifying settings, no extensions past allotted hours. Everything else was fair game. There were cameras in the rooms for property protection purposes, but many of the humans didn’t know this. Some of them did, and that was specifically why they bought you. Fucking ego tripping exhibitionists, those ones.

 

He stood awkwardly, quietly turned on, his eyes raking over you. He was not the forward type, no matter how strong his want. He’d never done this before.

 

You felt pity on him, electric and everywhere, and it damaged you.

 

You kicked the chair towards him, aggressive and sudden, and it startled him.

 

“Sit,” you instructed.

 

He did so, and waited, his legs bouncing anxiously. Poor thing. You almost had a mind to tie him up with rope right then, but he probably needed to be eased into that. You sat on his lap again, resuming your vindictive dance around his waist. You worked yourself using his shoulders and he gripped your back tight, breathing heavy. You rutted along his dick slow and torturous, and the gasps and groans he made hit you right in the core of your network.

 

“You’re so hard for me,” you said to him, and he shivered, strung out. “I want you to think about how intensely I’m going to fuck you. I’ll ride you just like this, make you see every fucking one of the stars.”

 

“I’ve seen you,” he panted, “around, I’ve seen you and I – _fuck._ ”

 

He pushed you back from him slightly.

 

“I don’t wanna have sex with you.”

 

You paused, going completely still. He was honest, too honest for a human, and that look was too serious. He just met you, for fuck’s sake. You hated him for making you feel things. For paying you to waste your time. To do what? Stare at you, wish he could fix you and save you from your destitute fate?

 

“Fuck you,” you said, a dangerous move. “I don’t want your sympathy.”

 

You stood up, pacing the back of the room and backtracking rapidly. Shit, he was probably just as regular as all the other guests in the house, was going to report you to your managers and complain that you were a rude, defective part. They would fire you, gladly, and you’d lose your boarding. People on the street would ravage you for parts.

 

“It’s not - “ He was still in the chair, defeated posture. Not going anywhere. He looked hurt, but not angry, which almost made you feel worse. You watched his every minute motion cautiously. “It’s not a sympathy thing, I promise. It’s just. I’m a bounty hunter.”

 

You froze, flicking your eyes up to the camera on one of the ceiling corners.

 

“I’m not gonna kill you,” he said, sensing your panic, even though you were shutting it down now. “I’m not undercover, this isn’t a raid. I come here alone, been coming around for years. It’s just that I’ve been doing the work for so long that I hate it. You spend most of your time chasin’ somethin’ you start to wonder what makes it tick. Really tick. I  _can’t_ do anything close to harm you, I wanna know too much. I wanna know you.”

 

You were offended that he thought fucking you might harm you. Even though it could. But this still sounded a hell of a lot like sympathy, and you weren’t here for it.

 

“What is there to know?” You deadpanned him. “Android number 57821. Built in 2500-something. Scavenged and restored in 2691. Running Skaia 5.2-85.3. Crockercorp batteries, Wonderland motors. Wind me up and watch me go, I can walk and talk and fuck like a real boy.”

 

He was flushing so red, you thought he might drop from a heatstroke. If he passed out, that would be an awkward way to spend the two hours. It wouldn’t be the first time you had to stand guard over an unconscious slump of blood and bones. You were good at what you did. As long as it was part of the game, your harsh brand of lingual foreplay reduced them to putty.

 

“What’s your name?” he asked you.

 

You weren't going to tell him that. It was against club rules, but fuck the rules, you couldn’t have him that close.

 

“Tell me yours,” you postured instead. "Your real one."

 

He hesitated less. “Dave Strider.”

 

You knew that surname. Suddenly, you wanted to run. There was now certifiable fact he was a government crony, a triple agent, every cross that could lead to your disassembly.  _You_ _just_ _had your hands all over him._

 

“Yeah,” Dave said, beating you to it, “Strider, as in the royal family. Third of four of the heirs. I ran away from home though. Never going back.”

 

You walked back to him, slowly, to stand in front of the chair. That wasn't just anything, leaving that kind of wealth and security. You weren't sure you could do it, if you were him. Only a serious conviction could make him be willing to be hated and scorned by his own blood. Family was important to humans. Maybe you misjudged him.

 

"Why?"

 

He shrugged. "Couldn't do it. Pretend like everyone don't know we've committed mass fraud, enslaved other planets for fun, enslaved our own people, caused the Nuclear War 'cause one of my ancestors broke a nail and was moody one day. I don't deserve taxpayer loyalty. I'm just some guy."

 

That was the moment you fell, but you tried to resist one last time.

 

"Why me?"

 

He looked suspiciously like he could tear up, and that was it. "I just. I don't know. I don't know - "

 

You kissed him. You'd never kissed a client before. It did nothing for you, or at least, it wasn't supposed to. You knew it was doing everything for him. The secret became an affirmation through moist, scarlet lips. You wanted him in ways you couldn't process. You reached for his belt and unlatched it, frenzied.

 

"I can't," he said, moving your hand. He tangled his fingers through yours, strong, steady grip. "I'm not in the 6 for the sex. I'm here because places like this are the closest thing to revolution the world's gonna get again. Because people find love here."

 

You knew. He was right to stop you. Knowing his motivations, you couldn't. You wouldn't, no matter how difficult it became.

 

"You're a fucking impossible idealist." You let him take care of your hand, even though it daunted you. "Though you are very - " you laughed, overcome with how fucking sentimental you sounded. "You look like that, and you're here? Just some guy. Far be it from me to advise you from raging against the infinite machine."

 

He let go of your hand, cradled your face, touched his forehead to yours.

 

"From where I'm sitting, I reckon I like the machine just fine."

 

 

Your sleep mode ends when you wake up at 100%.

 

Everything around you is sharper. The room has edges, colors, and details you'd thought were dimmed and blurred before you slept. You feel electricity surging and firing, even your damaged parts powering through injury. Dave is still next to you, and your soul acknowledges him like it never has before.

 

You now remember that your body housed a different soul once. Maybe one that lived for a hundred years, or a hundred years ago. Without access to the data from that soul's physical memory, which was removed when you were trashed during the war, you figure, you will never really know who you used to be. But at 100%, the how and when doesn't matter. All that matters is you've both survived this far, present and past you. You've been carrying him around, somewhere deep in your Skaia code, and he's ready to inform what you do now.

 

"How do you feel?" Dave asks you.

 

"Better." Your voice is louder, clearer. "Ready."

 

He looks breathless, taking in your rectified energy.

 

"We knew each other once," you tell him. "I don't know how, or when. But the Skaia in me knows."

 

Dave nods. "Yeah, I feel it too. Ever since we met."

 

You recall something he told you. "Don't humans believe in reincarnation?"

 

"Some do. Most don't. I think it's possible, but there's basically no hard science that could prove it. Not that there's too much science to souls."

 

You're leaving soon. You have to. You don't know where, but Dave has been following the trails of the demolished rebellion since you found him. This is the end of the road, and the start of the wilderness.

 

“What do you want?" Dave says. "Like out of life?”

 

You know now with certainty. You smile.

 

“Revolution.”

 

Dave takes your hand, strong and steady.

 

“I think I know the place for that.”

 

 

 

[Suffering](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lyux-sEdlbg) in sinking sand, all the hurt  
See I'm really lost, baby, we suffered a rare, rare blue  
So much hurt on this Earth, but you loved me  
And I really dared to love you too  
Perhaps what I mean to say is that  
It's amazing that your love was mine

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory Janelle Monae songs for this chapter are [Cold War](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z1xaya28by4), [Sally Ride](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IN-uTm0DrM), and [Oh, Maker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lyux-sEdlbg)
> 
> I wanted to get into Eridan and Karkat's history, and Eridan's motivations for turning him in, but the plot of this is pretty tight so I wrote [a side piece about it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18466354)


End file.
